


Chansons de marin

by AuKestrel



Series: Sur une journée donnée (On any given day) [1]
Category: Buried On Sunday (1992), My Life as a Dog (TV)
Genre: 6 Degrees of Due South, Canada, Crossover, First Time, M/M, POV Alternating, Slash, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuKestrel/pseuds/AuKestrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He casts about for a way to keep Johnny there, and seated: “Dinner,” he says, not so much a request as it probably should have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Objets trouvés

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted: 2005.
> 
> Consider this another 6 Degrees of due South/C6D entry. There needs to be more Gus Knickel fic. And more Johnny Johansson fic. Who can resist Callum in My Life as a Dog? Or Augustus Knickel in Buried on Sunday? Not me.
> 
> **chansons**
> 
> “By The Way,” Red Hot Chili Peppers; “The Dire Wolf,” The Tragically Hip; “100 Years,” Five for Fighting; “Out The Window,” Violent Femmes; “Tidal Wave,” Longwave; “Heaven Adores You,” Earlimart; “The Captain,” Kasey Chambers; “Man Overboard,” Blink-182; “Whistle Down the Wind*,” Tom Waits; “Something to It,” Great Big Sea; “Clocks,” Coldplay; “The Darkest One*,” The Tragically Hip; “Is It Wicked Not To Care?” Belle & Sebastian; “Kylä Vuotti Uutta Kuuta,” Värttinä; “Free In The Harbour,” Stan Rogers; “Joy to the World,” Three Dog Night.

## I. Objets trouvés

It’s probably the stillness that catches his eye at first. He can’t say for sure how long he’s been standing there, watching the leisurely progress of boats through the locks outside the Château Laurier, but the man across the canal, leaning on a giant planter, has been there even longer.

Gus squints - he’s going to have to admit he needs glasses at some point but he isn’t there yet - and then puts a hand up to shade his eyes. The late afternoon sun is a novelty after the past few days but is less than welcome at the moment.

He’s pretty sure it’s the same guy from last night.

Gus, unused to the enforced inactivity (not to say boredom) several days in Ottawa had imposed on him, had gone looking for a local curling club, advertised on a handwritten flyer near the cafe he’d begun to frequent, only to find that the club had been taken over for the weekend by a late-season hockey tournament. Off-season, really, but then he realized that it was some junior A tournament, no doubt a precursor to Worlds.

He’d wandered in the rear entrance, where the players and coaches were registering, one by one, and he felt himself relaxing already. Sure, it wasn’t curling, but it wasn’t high-stakes million-dollar arenas with coaches who had no idea how to generate offensive play under the latest national hockey  _diktats_.

The curling club seemed to be staffing the bar, and the local hockey club had kids selling popcorn nearby, so Gus got in line. He watched the players register, the table staffed by what looked like parents, directions to the dressing rooms flying thick and fast between signatures and requests for hockey tape.

Over in one corner, a group of kids dressed alike in red and white warm-up suits were being put through a series of exercises by a coach Gus took an instant dislike to, and it really had nothing to do with his superficial resemblance to Nelson.

Another group of players arrived; their coach, a tall, quiet blond, seemed able to organize the group without raising his voice or, really, saying much at all. The team parted to let the goalie register first; the coach hung back near the end of the line, a couple of kids hanging with him.

The Nelson look alike was taking his team through push-ups now with barked-out orders, a strident military note that was out of place in the organized chaos in the rest of the room (one team wasn’t out of their dressing room yet and another team was waiting for it; another dressing room had been locked and no one could seem to find the key; from the direction of the arena came the sounds of the goal horn and then, almost before the echo faded, a series of penalty calls).

The kids hanging with the blond coach were watching the other kids doing push-ups. None of the kids on their team had matching anything, except skates, and one of them elbowed another. The blond guy, watching too, apparently caught the interchange and bent down, elbowing the first kid himself, saying something with a wry grin. The kids grinned back and the coach pushed them forward, closing the gap in the line.

Gus bought himself a couple Labatts and a bag of popcorn and spent the rest of the evening in a far more enjoyable frame of mind than he’d thought possible. He was secretly glad when the red-and-white team lost, mostly because it seemed to bother their coach more than it apparently bothered them. When they announced the standings as he was leaving, he understood why: the quarterfinal round was the next morning and the red-and-white team was out. The team coached by the blond guy, however, was still in, and he heard the guy telling the team, still on the bench when he passed by, that the first game was 7:45.

Yeah, mini-golf beat out junior hockey  _and_  fishing as far as lifestyles went.

So here’s the blond coach, not quite twenty-four hours later, watching boats like he has nowhere else to be, ever; and Gus guesses that the kids must have lost or he’d be celebrating with them.

For a few moments he wishes he was twenty again and had nowhere else to be, ever, than where he was at that moment - which, at twenty, was probably Belgium, or maybe France by then. It’d sure beat all hell out of mayoring, governing, and, now, confederating: after six years of independence (or two hundred and eighty-six, depending on whom you listened to), the sovereign island of Solomon Gundy was about to become Canada’s newest, smallest province.

Yeah, he deserves a vacation.

He wonders idly if Sil really is going to run. Sil in the House... he’d give something to see Ottawa’s reaction to that. It would have made Dexter laugh, anyway, which is why Gus didn’t try to talk Sil or Thurgood out of their campaign plans.

He owed Dexter, and owes Noelle; and despite their history, Noelle had worked with him on the Ottawa end of the confederation compromise. She’d done a good job, and she’d found lawyers who, while they couldn’t rival Dexter, were good enough to keep Ottawa on the sunny side of honest. The bottom line was that Solomon Gundy would have provincial fishing rights, and the federal government had committed to ways and means of re-stocking the north Atlantic fisheries for the Maritimes  _and_  Newfoundland and Labrador.

A  _long_  vacation.

Gus shakes himself out of his reverie and looks across the canal again.

The blond guy still hasn’t moved.

Okay, he hadn’t been curious enough to get out of bed at 7:30 but he is curious enough to head to the bridge: on the off chance the guy’s still there when Gus gets to the other side, he’ll find out if the team really has lost.

He buys two bottles of water from a vendor on the other side. The blond guy takes the one he holds out with a lack of surprise that piques Gus’ curiosity. “Hey, thanks,” he says, his voice as quiet as it had seemed last night and reflecting the broad vowels of the prairie.

“You’re welcome,” Gus says with a smile, twisting off his own bottle cap and taking a healthy swig. “I thought I recognized you.”

The guy’s eyes shutter suddenly, or maybe it’s a cloud over the sun, sinking now.

“I ran across that tournament last night. I was wondering how your team did, but I wasn’t curious enough to get up before dawn to find out.” He grins, and this time the guy grins back at him, eyes full of warmth and light again. Gus holds out his hand. “Gus Knickel.”

“Johnny. Jóhannsson.” Probably Gus’ imagination that he hesitated over his name but the feel of Johnny’s hand in his is enough to distract him: warm, strong, callused, the grip that of a man used to manual labour. “We won the first, lost the second. We might have another game tomorrow, depending. I gave the kids the afternoon off.”

“They played a hell of a game last night,” Gus says honestly. “They deserved it.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, nodding. “Five years ago, we didn’t have a junior A team.”

“Winnipeg, right?” Gus says, more because he wants to hear Johnny talk than because he cares a damn about Manitoba, or junior A, hockey.

It was probably Noelle’s voice that had attracted him to her to begin with.

“North of there,” Johnny’s saying. “Well, yeah, Winnipeg, southern Manitoba. I’m from north of there, on the lake, been living in Winnipeg the past few years. The kids are from all over Manitoba, some from the Territories too.”

He hears himself saying, “I know the locks are utterly fascinating, but how about a beer?”

As pickups go, it’s not the smoothest, and certainly not his best line, but Johnny looks over at the locks and then back at him and grins again, then nods.

Not that it  _is_  a pickup, and there’s no harm in a beer.

Gus tries to sound stern with himself, conjuring Zeda’s voice in his head. He has a feeling he isn’t quite getting there.

“Where are you staying?” he asks. “I’m over there,” his nod indicating the Laurier.

Johnny grins. “That’s way beyond our price range. We’re at the youth hostel down by the university.”

“It’s still in the neighbourhood,” Gus says, beginning to lead the way down into Hull. “Unless you have a place, I’ve staked out my own café already.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Haven’t had time,” Johnny says, keeping up with him easily. “If there was one here, I’d have been there already.”

“Definitely a missed opportunity,” Gus says, flashing another amazing grin at him, and Johnny feels the same confusion he’d felt before, and not just because they're heading into Gatineau and not back across the bridge. If Gus was a puckbunny, he’d know the score. Gussie, because he’d have to be a she, would be trying to pick him up and Johnny, no longer tied to... well, almost everything, would probably be following her back to her hotel, because Gussie would have to be about as hot as Gus, maybe hotter. But that didn’t seem possible.

Maybe people from Ottawa were just really friendly, and, fortunately for him, not pro hockey fans, which was his first thought upon seeing a bottle of water and a knee-shattering smile beyond it.

Of course, Gus is staying in the gigantic castle-hotel that would make the Burkes turn green  _and_  blue, so he must not be from Ottawa either. To be honest, the further east they’ve come the more confused Johnny’s ear has gotten, and now he’s not sure if he can tell French from Spanish.

“You’ve been here a while,” Gus comments as they climb the bank on the other side of the canal. “No locks in Manitoba?”

“No,” Johnny says, feeling a smile come on. “We’re on the lake. No need. If you want to move something overland, well, there’s a reason every other town is called Portage au Prairie.”

Gus laughs out loud, throwing his head back. “Me either,” he says. “I’m from an island off the coast of Newfoundland. We have tides, not locks.”

“It takes about two hours for a boat to get through the locks,” Johnny says, grasping for words that make sense while trying not to stare at the long line of Gus’ throat, framed by loose waves of dark hair shot through with silver, and wondering why he feels the urge to stroke his fingers through that hair. He starts to say that portage seems faster but shakes his head instead. “Prairie’s flatter.”

Gus takes him by the shoulder, guiding him down a narrow street south of the hotel, and Johnny isn’t sorry that Gus holds onto his shoulder all the way across the street.

For a few seconds he wonders why that is, then stops: not worth the worry, after all.

He does try to object when Gus tells the waiter to put their beers on his tab, but Gus shrugs. “I’m on an expense account this trip, I’m told, so you might as well enjoy it too. You have to pay out of your own pockets for these tournaments, don’t you?”

He’s still trying to work out what the hell is going on, if Gus is interested, if  _he’s_  interested, which he  _is_ , and  _why —_ “Some of the travelling expenses, yeah. Parents pick up most of what the sponsors don’t for the kids. We might have a couple kids going to Worlds too.”

“Not much to do in Manitoba in the winter but skate, I guess,” Gus says, raising an eyebrow.

“Newfoundland either,” Johnny says, trying not to watch Gus’ mouth. “You don’t sound like you’re from Newfoundland.” He feels his face get hot as soon as he says it, wondering if Gus’ sharp eyes caught him watching his mouth, but Gus just laughs again.

“No, I don’t,” he says. “The positive side of a misspent youth. Most of the island prefers curling to hockey.”

Johnny nods: curling is just as popular in Gimli.

He couldn’t have said how long they sat there, idly chatting about curling, fishing in Gimli and Solomon Gundy, the trials and tribulations of depending on tourism as an industry, Auntie Auntie, and even Eric, who he explains is his nephew who’s starting his first year at McGill along with AJ in the fall.

The buzzing of his cell phone brings him back to earth: Lars, the assistant coach, wanting to know if he’s going to join them at the hostel for pizza “if there’s any left.”

Gus is shaking his head and Johnny obliges almost without thinking, telling Lars no, he’ll pick something up on his way back. He almost hangs up before remembering to ask about the tournament. The Bywater Bulls went down at the five o’clock game, so they’re back in. “I’ll get them to bed early,” Lars says, anticipating Johnny’s words. “If I don’t see you tonight, see you in the morning.”

Johnny closes his phone and rubs the bridge of his nose with both his thumbs.

“They lose?” Gus asks, his voice warm and sympathetic.

“No,” Johnny says, glancing up between his hands. “They lost. The other team. We have an 8:15 game.”

“You could look happier,” Gus says after a few moments.

“I’m happy,” Johnny says. “Mostly tired. This is my... my last tournament. I’m taking a break from coaching after this. They say let’s see how I feel after the summer break, and I say, sure, but don’t, uh, count on me next season. If I’m around, maybe some goalie coaching or assistant, but... if fortune smiles...” He shrugs, finding a smile from somewhere.

Gus is quiet and Johnny realizes he’s misstepped, or overstepped, or something.

Gus is from an island, a fishing island, a guy who knows what hard work is, plus he’s the mayor; and Johnny’s attitude — what did Zoë call it, one fight, that  _lackadaisical_  attitude, no wonder he’d never gone anywhere, never done anything — Johnny’s attitude isn’t real impressive.

Not that it ever was, but it seemed good enough. Hell, seems good enough, at least for junior A hockey, and Eric. Might’ve been good enough, once upon a time, for the NHL too.

Once in a while — he tries not to think it, but it happens — once in a while he wonders if the coaching might have made a difference after all: steady work, steady money, and a chance for Zoë to stay home, maybe have a kid of their own.

But it was hockey and there really wasn’t any way Johnny could do hockey and come out ahead with Zoë.

Took him a while to figure that out.

Took him a little longer to figure out that where he was used to win/wins, she was used to lose/loses, and as far as she was concerned, at the end, anyway, he was a lose/loser.

They all were, especially Eric, always too wise for his age and showing age now where there should only be innocence, even though Johnny’s pretty sure he’d never known the whole story. He’s hoping Eric comes back from a summer in Indonesia, or Malaysia, or wherever the hell Max is dragging him off to, with some foolish innocence under his belt and less anguish in those eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus doesn’t know which wave is higher, the sympathy or the jealousy: Johnny sounds bone tired, there at the last, and Gus isn’t the only one who needs a vacation, certain sure. But to be able to ditch it all and take off...

Yeah, and Dexter was dead, and Nelson alive and self-important as ever, and whoever said life was fair?

“Where are you going?” he asks quietly, and Johnny looks up from where he’d been studying his hands on the table-top, fast enough that Gus catches a fleeting glimpse of worry before it’s replaced by what looks like either relief or pleasure.

“Wherever I can.” He tips back the last of his beer and pushes his chair back. “Canada’s a big place.” He looks at Gus again and this time seems almost shy. “I haven’t seen most of it. I thought I’d start east, after this tournament, and work my way west. Or north.”

“Wherever the wind takes you,” Gus says, musing.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, sounding pleased. “Yeah, like that.” Their eyes meet, across the table, and Gus feels his hand stretching out, compelled to touch Johnny’s hand, still gripping the edge of the table, when two Americans walk by, complaining loudly of the  _freezing_  weather in _May_ , of all things—!

The mood is broken, probably a good thing since Gus doesn’t know what he’d have done with Johnny’s hand — well, then, yes, he does, and even if Johnny’s interested he probably doesn’t feel like making out at a cafe table in the street, no matter how close to dark it is — and they both look down at their own clothes, Johnny’s grin no doubt echoing Gus’.

“Thinking I might want to buy a souvenir t-shirt,” Johnny murmurs,  _sotto voce_  although there’s no chance the Americans would hear him, at the corner now and their tones still carrying through the evening air even if their actual words aren’t. “Something cooler.”

Yes, and that just does it, the idea of Johnny in a skimpy tourist-quality t-shirt, a white one, one that might be thin enough to show dusky nipples through, and, no, Gus isn’t going anywhere for the time being.

He casts about for a way to keep Johnny there, and seated: “Dinner,” he says, not so much a request as it probably should have been.

But Johnny doesn’t seem to mind: his fingers, long and elegant, loosen their grip on the edge of the table and he sits back slightly.

It make Gus feel even better, which makes his condition even worse, that Johnny might have wanted to have dinner with him.

“They’ve got decent sandwiches here, or there’s a Thai place down the street a bit.”

What he really wants to suggest is takeaway from the Thai place, maybe a five on the spice, and a six pack of lager, and his hotel room.

As it is, settling the tab gives him enough time to stand without too much worry, and to learn that Johnny’s never had Thai. Johnny discloses this last matter-of-factly, not at all embarrassed that he’s a small-town prairie boy, and Gus feels an odd tug of pride.

The Thai place isn’t much more than a glorified takeaway, a small storefront with a counter stretching most of the way across the room, two bar tables with tall spindly stools in the window, and a self-serve cooler on one wall. There’s a line but by the time they order a table’s free, and Gus isn’t sure if fate — no, fortune, Johnny’d said — is smiling on him or not.

Gus’ drunken noodles are too spicy for Johnny, which Gus thought they might be, but the pad thai goes over well, and Gus hopes he isn’t staring at Johnny’s tongue when he licks the corners of his mouth, or at Johnny himself as he drains a second beer, eyes closed, head back.

He really is too old for this: twice in one night, hell, twice in one  _hour_ , but it feels so fucking  _good_ to be hard, to be  _interested_ , to imagine Johnny beneath him, head back and eyes closed in a different kind of bliss...


	2. Force majeure

##  II. Force majeure

Gus is staring at him and Johnny licks his lips, wondering if there’s a stray noodle or something, trying not to stare back. Gus’ eyes are dark and there’s an expression on his face that Johnny’s never seen on anyone’s face before.

At least, he realizes slowly, not when they were looking at  _him_.

He’d seen that look on Zoë’s face, and on —

He pulls himself back to the present, meeting Gus’ eyes again and deliberately licking his lips this time. He’s answered by the slow curl of Gus’ tongue across his bottom lip, and for the first time he consciously wonders what that would feel like, what Gus would taste like, what —

What the  _hell_?

He knocks over a beer bottle, pushing back from the table, but catches it before it falls to the floor and shatters.

“Nice reflexes,” Gus says, his fingers closing, warm and strong, around Johnny’s wrist.

Johnny’s pretty sure that “reflexes” isn’t what’s meant, but he’s not sure of anything right now, so Gus gets a pass: Johnny’s straight, right, and was married for — for too long, and never even thought —

“Guess I’d better get back to the, uh, guys,” he hears himself saying, coward, to run away, use the team as an excuse. “Thanks —”

Gus doesn’t loose his wrist. Johnny looks up, realizing too late that’s what Gus meant him to do, and he nearly drowns in Gus’ eyes, darker than ever, a half-smile curving a corner of that generous mouth.

“I’ll show you a shortcut,” Gus says, and there’s a brief stroke of his thumb on the underside of Johnny’s wrist, where the skin is soft. It’s too quick to be called a caress, but what else can it be?

He hears himself agreeing, stumbling slightly over two whole words, wondering if he’s crazy or if Gus is.

A few moments later he knows they both are: Gus, also pushing back from the table and rising to his feet, a fluid motion but slow, slow and deliberate enough for Johnny to see his pants stretched tight across —

There’s a roaring in his ears.

He can’t believe it, but he’s getting hard too.

He almost stumbles over the doorstep, the idea of Gussie a faint hilarious memory, and Gus grabs his elbow to steady him.

And Johnny doesn’t try to pull away, not even when Gus guides them into an alley, away from streetlights flickering in the twilight, pushing Johnny back against a wall.

A thumb, callused and rough, is stroked across Johnny’s mouth and he licks at it, involuntarily. Gus’ hand tightens on his neck as if to brace the other hand, pulling up Johnny’s shirt. When a finger brushes Johnny’s nipple he lets his head fall back against the wall, trying not to make a sound.

He loses the battle the next minute when Gus’ tongue flicks across that same nipple. He tries to clench his jaw, buries his hands in Gus’ hair, and gives up the next second, his moan echoing in the alley and sounding startlingly loud.

Gus strokes the inside of Johnny’s elbow and then slides his hand up under Johnny’s shirt to find his other nipple. The twin points of stimulation suddenly feel like one, warm wet tongue suckling fingers rubbing tweaking pulling —

“ _Gus_  —”

There’s a hand in his hair, suddenly, and Gus’ mouth finally,  _finally_ , descending over his.

Johnny takes a moment to panic, and another moment to be amazed at how well they fit together, and then lets himself go with a needy sound that would be embarrassing if it wasn’t being echoed deep in Gus’ throat.

He frees his arms from the circle of Gus’ without breaking the kiss, pulling Gus closer and letting one hand slide down to the curve of Gus’ ass, not so different after all.

Gus moans again, licking across Johnny’s mouth and fluttering kisses across his jaw to his ear.

Somehow both Johnny’s hands are on Gus’ ass now and he’s pressing them together rhythmically, feeling Gus’ cock sliding alongside his own, the denim and cotton between them frustrating and stimulating by turns.

Gus is raining kisses on Johnny’s cheekbone, across his nose, one eyelid, then the other.

He’s a force of nature, a tidal wave: no wonder the locks, the well-ordered canal, held no interest for him.

Johnny slides one hand up to stroke Gus’ cheekbone and Gus turns his head to lick his thumb, then suckles the mound of flesh at the base.

Johnny had no  _idea_  anything — everything! — could feel so good. He wants to feel Gus’ mouth on his own again but doesn’t want Gus to stop doing everything —  _anything_  — for even a fraction of a second.

Gus seems to read his mind, and this second kiss is deeper, slower, than the first. Johnny’s so dizzy he can’t tell if he’s standing on his head or his feet but the brick wall is firm at his back and Gus’ arms are around him so it doesn’t matter.

Gus pulls back slightly, Johnny’s lower lip between his teeth, a soft nibble, then another kiss, aching between them and spiraling higher...

“Oh God — Gus — I’m —”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“No,” Gus whispers, pulling away, biting Johnny’s chin gently, tasting the rasp of stubble there. “No, you’re not.”

Johnny’s chest is heaving and his eyes are wide. He swallows, a gulp Gus can hear, they’re so close, then closes his eyes for a minute.

“No,” he whispers back. “’kay. I’m okay, I’m good.”

“Come back with me,” Gus says in his ear, tongue darting in and out between the words. “Please.”

Johnny leans into him, brushing a kiss across Gus’ own jaw and ending at his ear with a nibble, very neatly turning the tables and causing Gus’ knees to buckle. He pulls Johnny closer, turning his face so their lips meet, sweet and lingering.

“Yeah,” Johnny breathes against the corner of Gus’ mouth.

“Yes,” Gus echoes. “Yeah.”

Actually getting back to the hotel isn’t the easiest thing Gus has ever done: it’s gone full dark now and the streetlights catch Johnny’s bone structure in odd and enchanting ways. Sometimes Gus can’t look away, and then neither does Johnny, and once they actually stumble to a halt.

Two more blocks, Gus says to himself, not out loud, but his hand is reaching of its own accord to Johnny’s face again, tracing the line at the side of his mouth with one finger, thumb edging across one cheekbone. He feels Johnny’s hand on his arm and then their fingers are entwined, Johnny pulling Gus’ hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss there.

Sweet, he’s so...  _sweet_ , not a word that could ever be applied to, say, Noelle.

Dexter, on the other hand...

Gus holds Johnny’s eyes and slowly turns their hands, pressing a kiss in turn against the back of Johnny’s hand. The sound of a car door makes Johnny blink; Gus presses another kiss to Johnny’s hand and then tugs.

The lobby is large — ‘palatial’ — and Johnny glances around it, a slight smile on his face. The front desk staff is huddled together at the far end of the counter; Gus wishes, in a way, that someone would see him with this stunning man, but that’s not really the point right now.

The lift’s empty and Gus is hard again by the time it reaches his floor, even though he and Johnny simply stood close, shoulder to shoulder, touching here and there, accidental brushes and not a word spoken.

The hotel corridor is well lit, enough that Gus can see the flush on Johnny’s cheeks as he looks out the window while Gus digs out the keycard. He slides a hand up Johnny’s arm, caressing, hoping — no second thoughts, not now — and sees Johnny’s mouth lift in a smile.

He wants to see Johnny naked, sprawled across the bed, sheets tangled between legs that seem as long as his own…

Maybe a little of that shows: a sidelong glance and then Johnny leans in close, his eyes reflecting some of Gus’ own wonder and some uncertainty.

No way to banish that, not here, not now, so Gus simply kisses him, almost chastely, holding Johnny’s face between his hands. When he breaks the kiss, Johnny’s eyes are still closed, his mouth parted slightly, and there’s nothing that Gus can do except kiss him again.

He doesn’t remember it being like this before, long glorious moments of infinity: soft lips, strong tongue, breath warm and cool by turn against his skin. Johnny’s fingers are callused, rough and strong, and he can feel almost feel the whorls and ridges of fingerprints against his skin, every sensation magnified out of time. He doesn’t remember Noelle, or Marthe, or even Jack tasting like  _this_ , feeling like this, moving like…

Johnny’s moving against him, a slow, sensuous rhythm, or maybe he’s moving against Johnny, as easy as breathing.

He could stay just like  _this_  for ever.

Or not…

Johnny’s hand finds his again, the one holding the keycard; Gus breaks the kiss long enough to find the slot, guiding their hands to it. Johnny leans against the door when Gus pushes the handle. In, and around, and Johnny’s leaning against the inside of the door now, his weight pushing it closed, his chest rising and falling quicker than before and watching Gus, his eyes catching the scattered light from the window.

Gus puts a hand up to Johnny’s face again, this time smoothing an eyebrow before cupping his chin and pulling him close. He realizes Johnny’s shaking, trembling, even though he’s reaching for Gus too.

“Are you all right?”

Johnny inhales through his nose, exhaling with something akin to a seal’s snort, and leans in even closer, his lips parting —

“Johnny,” Gus whispers, and he’s not sure what he’s trying to do, what he should be doing, because all that matters is breathing Johnny in, tasting him, licking him, gentle as he can — because regardless of his transparent attempt to change the subject, Johnny’s still trembling — but unable, God help him, to keep his hands off Johnny, off Johnny’s neck, up under Johnny’s shirt (again)…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Less talk, more tongue, and he wonders if Gus has church suppers in — off — near? Newfoundland that resemble First Lutheran’s in Gimli, because that was always his take on them, and the busybodies attending them, and the endless chatter, and he’s never been big on beef tongue, but he’s discovered he’s really big on Gus tongue.

No, he  _doesn’t_  know what he’s doing here, except that he  _is_  here so why worry now?

And this is the first time in… hell, in  _years_  he’s felt free, totally free, no one to know, no one to judge, and it’s funny how it doesn’t exactly seem like anonymous sex.

Anyway, whatever this is, it’s  _all right_  or he wouldn’t —again —  _be_  here.

Okay, yeah, Gus is a guy, but, again, if he fucks it up, who’s to know but Gus?

And Gus has apparently decided to shut up and go with it for the time being, pulling them both backwards a few steps and resting a hip against a counter Johnny can see now that he knows to look for it. Gus pulls him closer, settling Johnny between his legs, lining their cocks up again, fitting like they were made for this, which is another strange cherry on top of this absolutely bizarre evening.

Johnny closes his eyes and lets himself go, reveling in the feel of another guy against him, the taste of another guy on his lips, the — oh, God, the hand on his ass, kneading, strong and sure.

And untucking Gus’ shirt from his pants isn’t so different from making out with Margrét Bjarnadóttir in the Helgussons’ barn except Gus’ skin is even smoother and his nipples are smaller but, yeah, just as sensitive.

Gus is tugging at Johnny’s shirt but the second button gets caught on Johnny’s chin. There’s a pop and a rattle as the shirt gives way and the button hits the counter behind Gus: Johnny’ll have to buy that t-shirt after all.

Gus is sliding the sleeve down Johnny’s arm, kissing as he goes, head bent. Johnny grabs the back hem of Gus’ shirt and pulls hard enough to separate the shirt from an imaginary fighting strap and over and off Gus’ head, bending to kiss, to lick Gus’ shoulder, then scraping his teeth across the bone on top to feel Gus shudder against him.

Never would have used teeth on Zoë, never would have thought to, but Gus’ groan almost brings Johnny off right then.

The next instant Gus’ hands are everywhere: on Johnny’s jaw, holding him close for a deep kiss; on Johnny’s chest, pressing Johnny’s nipple down with the tip of his thumb; and his other hand is unfastening Johnny’s jeans, swift and sure. Then his hands are on Johnny’s hips, then on the backs of his knees as Gus sinks with incredible grace to kneel in front of Johnny, licking and kissing the soft skin under his navel, tugging the jeans down down —

Johnny’s trying to toe off his boots at the same time he’s trying not to fall on his ass  _and_  trying not to come, and he never felt like this, not even on draft day, not even on his wedding night… and Jesus, what is  _wrong_  with him?

Gus looks up at him, rocking back on his heels and rubbing the backs of Johnny’s knees with his fingers, firm enough that it doesn’t tickle.

His eyes are shining in the dark, and Johnny can see his mouth, lips parted, maybe even a little swollen, and his cock jerks like it has a mind of its own.

“Boots,” he says, trying to sound offhand, steadying himself with a hand on the counter, pushing the panic down and away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus has never found underwear, as such, particularly enticing: Noelle had a peach confection that she evidently thought would drive him wild, back before that first winter, and the truth was — is — he much prefers nothing at all between himself and his partner.

But Johnny’s briefs fit so well with the rest of him that Gus is oddly touched and equally ready to rip them off and bend Johnny over the counter in another heartbeat.

He settles for tasting Johnny just above the elastic of the waistband while he pulls the jeans down, caressing Johnny’s thighs through the fabric and trying, trying so damn hard, to take it  _slow_.

Johnny’s weight shifts; one hand goes to the counter and it feels as if he stumbles under Gus’ hands.

“Boots,” he says breathlessly, but Gus, looking up, sees the beginnings of panic on Johnny’s face.

Gus breathes out, takes another breath while he rubs Johnny’s legs, almost unconsciously, the worn denim soft against his fingertips, rocking back on his heels.

“You’re straight,” he says finally, when he has his breathing under control, sliding his hands back up Johnny’s thighs, reluctantly, to where the jeans are hanging loose at Johnny’s hips.

Johnny’s hands cover his, pushing them down and away; and then Johnny bends to kiss him.

Then he’s pulling off his boots and kicking his jeans all the way down and off before kneeling with Gus and taking Gus’ face in his hands.

“I guess not,” he whispers, and when a half smile lifts one corner of his mouth, Gus is irretrievably, fully, completely  _lost_.

He lets himself stay lost in the kiss that follows: slow, slow and sweet, and this is like nothing Gus has ever felt before. The care, the  _attention_  Johnny, yes, lavishes on each and every moment is…

…is like a man who has all day to watch boats go through locks, or all night to kiss as if he has nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but this, ever.

Sometimes — well, to be honest, often — time has weighed heavy on Gus’ hands.

Right now he feels himself trying to grab each moment only to watch it slip away the next second, but Johnny’s still there, and so is the next second, and the one after that.

He breathes in deep, inhaling Johnny, and lets himself luxuriate for a few moments more before licking one corner of Johnny’s mouth, then sliding his tongue down Johnny’s neck to his collarbone, then backtracking to kiss, then lick, the pulse pounding just under Johnny’s sweet, sweet skin.

It’s so still, so quiet, that Gus can feel the reverberations against his lips and can hear Johnny’s pulse — or is it his own? — in his ears, not a gentle wash of surf but a thunder of waves crashing on the rocks, prelude to a storm.

He traces the knobs of Johnny’s collarbone with his tongue and when he glances up, Johnny’s head is back, eyes closed, almost the way Gus imagined it would be.

“Johnny,” he whispers, afraid to break what seems to be a spell weaving them together, quiet, dark, insistent.

Johnny’s eyes open, dazed, unfocused, and it’s only through sheer effort of will Gus doesn’t slip one knee behind them and slide them both to the floor. He keeps a hand in Johnny’s hair, shaped over the back of Johnny’s head, one thumb brushing the curve of Johnny’s ear. “You might not believe this, but there’s actually a bed in the other room.”

Johnny closes his eyes again for a brief moment. Then: “I didn’t know.”

He speaks as quietly as Gus, as if he too feels the spell.

Gus finds the counter with one hand, keeping the other on Johnny: a wise precaution, as it happens, since Johnny stumbles again, getting to his feet, and even in the dark Gus can see the grimace of pain on his face.

“Bad knees,” Johnny says, still quiet, lifting his left leg at the knee with one hand. “Sorry…”

“Sorry indeed,” Gus echoes, pulling open the under-cabinet fridge and reaching for a bottle of water in the door. He holds it out to Johnny, who takes it with that same half-smile as before. Their eyes lock and Gus finds himself leaning in. Johnny’s eyes are closed, his lips parting, before Gus regains control, pushing the water towards Johnny, between them. “I have ibuprofen.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As Gus leads the way, sure-footed in the dark, he adds over his shoulder, almost conversationally, “I can’t keep my hands off you, Johnny.”

Johnny stumbles again, not so much the knees this time as the words jumbling in his head and not making sense and then coming together with a feeling like fireworks, or champagne, or — or even a winning goal… in overtime.

Then Gus is touching him again, sliding his arm around Johnny’s waist, and Johnny’s being backed up inexorably against the doorframe, the bottle of water too cold to be forgotten but not cold enough to dissuade either of them from another long, slow kiss. Gus’ skin is soft-smooth against Johnny’s chest and it feels like everywhere Gus touches him is on fire or ice cold, or maybe it’s just the swirl of the northern lights, dancing across and between them and igniting almost every nerve Johnny owns.

Almost.

When Gus slides a hand between Johnny’s underwear and his ass, stroking his fingers over bare skin, Johnny drops the water so he can grab Gus, pull him closer, trying to touch every part of Gus with every part of him. If he could turn himself inside out, he would, and he knows it would feel even better than this does.

“God!” Gus says, an explosive sound blending with an explosive laugh. “Christ, Johnny, the bed’s right fucking  _here_.” He’s got Johnny by the shoulders, hands sliding down to grip Johnny’s upper arms, matching their steps while he marches them towards a big four-poster piled with pillows and a comforter.

Johnny has to laugh too, just because Gus is, and just because, even though he feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t come _soon_ , like,  _yesterday_.

Gus pulls Johnny against him and sweeps back the comforter with his other hand. A couple of pillows tumble to the floor and Gus tumbles Johnny onto the bed without missing a beat. His lips are soft and warm on Johnny’s neck, and then there’s a slide of tongue on one nipple. But before Johnny can do more than react he’s bereft again: Gus slides off him, moving back to the door.

“I don’t fucking need  _ibuprofen_ ,” but Gus’ only response is a warm chuckle. Leaning up on an elbow, he senses rather than sees Gus scoop up the bottle he dropped, then hears a rattle echoing off what’s probably the tile of the bathroom.

Then there’s a shape looming over the very high, very comfortable mattress. “Light,” Gus says, reaching with one hand to shade Johnny’s eyes. Johnny closes his eyes obediently and pulls Gus’ hand down to his mouth, kissing his palm, then twining his fingers with Gus’.

Even through his eyelids, the light’s enough of a shock to make him squeeze them tight, but then there’s a shadow blocking the light and Gus’ mouth is on his again even while his hand, slipping free of Johnny’s, is stroking down Johnny’s body to his waist — and below.

Johnny raises his hips, helps pull, then strips his socks off, awkward as hell but who cares? He’s fully, gloriously nude and stretched out on Gus’ bed and Gus —

Gus is  _staring_ , lips parted slightly, and Johnny can just see his tongue glistening between his teeth.

“I — your — your knee,” Gus says, his turn to stumble, and a fresh wave breaks over Johnny, because Gus is  _not_  looking at his knee.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“The knee’s fine, Gus, just—” Johnny is saying, twisting on the bed and drawing Gus close, wrapping his legs around Gus’ thighs.

“God,” Gus says, interrupting him and definitely not appealing to a higher power, sinking to his own knees and tasting the skin on the inside of Johnny’s left thigh.

“God!” It’s a counterpoint, an echo, and Johnny’s hands are in Gus’ hair, where they belong, and Gus’ mouth is —

Oh, God, yes…

Sea salt, bitter slick and smooth as butter, and Johnny’s cock is sliding in and out of Gus’ mouth like he was born to it. Gus opens wider, reveling in the throb of Johnny’s pulse on his tongue, in the sounds Johnny’s making, in the feel of Johnny’s fingers grasping at his head, pulling at his hair.

He wants to fuck Johnny, wants Johnny to fuck him, and most of all wants Johnny to never stop fucking his face, right  _now_ , the thick warm glide of him and the taste of the sea welling up, warm and alive and, oh, God,  _yes_ , spilling out and over. Gus hears himself gulping, swallowing greedily and trying to keep up, while somewhere above him Johnny’s gasping words he can’t make out.

He discards his shoes and socks as he moves up, over, then atop Johnny. “Life began in the ocean,” he breathes, sliding down so they’re chest to chest: Johnny’d collapsed backwards and has his eyes closed, chest heaving and a look on his face that Gus doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

“Ocean…”

“You taste like the sea,” Gus whispers. Johnny opens his eyes, looking up at him, then pulls Gus down, his tongue moving between Gus’ lips and darting into his mouth. One hand curves behind Gus’ neck, shifting them both to seal their mouths together more completely. Gus shifts them too, his cock riding high on Johnny’s left thigh, unable, or unwilling, to stop long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes.

“Never tasted the sea…” Johnny’s lips are soft on his, his whisper as gentle as the dawn. Gus strains closer, finding Johnny’s mouth again by instinct, his body insistently speeding up the rhythm.

The world spins: he finds himself on his back, blinking up at Johnny, who’s got one hand on his shoulder and the other at his waist.

“Never tasted the sea,” Johnny repeats, as quietly as before, and it’s all Gus can do not to come when Johnny wets his lips again.

Tables turned, he lifts his ass to help Johnny pull his pants off, boxers too: Johnny’s patience apparently does have limits.

Long moments go by: Johnny’s staring at him, not touching, just looking.

All right, Johnny’s patience does  _not_  have limits, but Gus’ does. He reaches for Johnny only to find himself straddled, Johnny on his hands and knees leaning in to brush a brief kiss across Gus’ temple, then his cheek. Johnny shifts his weight to his left arm, lifting his right hand to Gus’ neck, shaping the tendons under those long, long fingers, thumb brushing across his collarbone.

Then the hand is spanning Gus’ chest, tracing the outline of his nipple. Gus bucks upward and Johnny’s eyes widen, then drift closed as he sinks down onto Gus, his now-soft cock draping itself over Gus’ not-so-soft (rock-hard,  _aching_ ) cock.

“Never felt the sea,” Johnny whispers, pushing himself upright and rocking back and forth, cock to cock and if only he doesn’t  _stop_  Gus can —

His cock jerks and he can feel Johnny’s balls up against his. He takes a breath, running his hands down Johnny’s ribs to cup his ass, rocking and pulling in the rhythm Johnny set. So close, so close, so —

But Johnny’s moving again, ass lifting, thighs flexing under Gus’ hands. A lick, a nip, at Gus’ chest but Johnny keeps moving down, a hand already, somewhat delicately, holding Gus loosely around the base of his cock. There’s a warm tongue tracing the indentation that runs from his hip to his groin, and Gus doesn’t really know what he expected but he didn’t quite expect this: Johnny’s mouth, warm and wet, closing over his balls almost as delicately as his hand, still on Gus’ cock and now rubbing the underside with the pad of his thumb.

Gus can’t breathe but doesn’t really want to, just wants —

Johnny’s agile tongue is licking, curling around the base of Gus’ cock, followed with a scattering of kisses, and his lips are soft, so soft and gentle Gus can’t tell where he stops and Johnny starts.

His hands have found their way to Johnny’s head, his hair soft, too, against Gus’ palms, as soft as his lips, his tongue, now licking upwards. Gus starts to shake, choking out a warning, a plea, hope and ecstasy, spiked higher by the feel of Johnny’s mouth finally,  _finally_  closing over him and bringing him home.

He’s aware, in some part of his mind, that Johnny’s moving again, settling across his chest and warming Gus’ sweat-damp skin, pulling the sheet with him. As Gus’ eyes close, Johnny tucks his chin into the curve of Gus’ shoulder, whispering something about the sea.


	3. Fait accompli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right, so Gus had thought of it yesterday, when he’d barely met Johnny, but now he knows that he’s not whistling down the wind.

## III. Fait accompli

Johnny’s been so used to waking up alone (and cold, more often than not) that he doesn’t wake the way he usually does, startled and with the echoes of something not quite a nightmare at the edges of his mind.

Instead the bed is warm and soft, and there are legs tangled with his, and an arm around him. He realizes, drifting toward consciousness, that he’s expecting the feel and the scent of Zoë’s hair on the pillow, but remembers in the next few seconds that he’s in bed with Gus.

The lamp on the table is still on: since Johnny needs the bathroom, that’s mostly a good thing.

The toilet seat is up, and that makes him smile: he still puts it down, even after three years.

He leaves it up when he’s finished, wincing as the noise from flushing fills the room, and bends for a quick drink from the faucet after washing his hands.

Gus, asleep, is still damn hot, and Johnny laughs at himself again. Lots of first times: never would’ve thought he’d actually go down on a guy, and  _like_  it, like it enough to taste it, hell,  _swallow;_ and never really thought that sex with a guy would make him feel like this, but it did, and he does.

Gus probably does this all the time — would have to, hot as he is, practiced as he is — but Johnny doesn’t feel jealous or cheap; he just wishes morning wasn’t so close. He’s not sure he’ll ever have the courage again to say “yes.”

First, and maybe only, time, so he turns out the light and crawls back into bed with Gus, who rolls over and pulls him close again.

The next time he wakes, the room is light, and he and Gus are kissing, soft and slow, cocks rubbing against each other, soft and slow too, Gus half on top of him and murmuring words against his lips, into his mouth.

God, it’s good, so good, and he needs to know what time it is but he can’t  _think_ …

He rolls them so Gus is pinned beneath him, intending to look at the clock, but Gus smiles up, sleepy and soft around the mouth. Another touch of lips, now with Gus’ hands pulling him down. He’s struggling to remember, shit, there’s something else that he’s supposed to be doing here but his body’s telling him that all it wants is last night, over and over again, in slow motion with replays. He tries again, pulling his head back —

“Uh, coffee?” he mumbles around Gus’ lips, because he’d already started talking and Gus moves fast for a man who doesn’t like mornings.

“Mmmm. Yeah, coffee would taste good on you.” Gus’ eyes are bright, full of life and fun, and Johnny can’t tear his own eyes away. Lips, either, and he’s trying to think and not think at the same time. There’s no time for sex or even coffee by the time they get done kissing, and Johnny isn’t sure what ‘done’ really means or whether he wants to think about it. He just knows that what they did was okay and that he’s going to miss it… maybe forever.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the clock: a 7 and a 1 and — shit! “Lars is going to kill me,” and he’s trying to apologize and roll out of bed all at the same time: what the hell did he do with his clothes, and thank God he  _didn’t_  come in his jeans last night.

Gus leans over his side of the bed — his side, yeah, like  _that_ , sure, Johnny — and tosses Johnny his briefs, then slides over himself so he’s almost crosswise on the bed.

Johnny pulls his briefs over his hard cock with a wince. Gus touches Johnny’s knee, looking up at Johnny with a question in his eyes.

Johnny shakes his head: he hadn’t taken the ibuprofen last night, but there’s no pain anywhere but his heart, which is monumentally stupid and only goes to show that Zoë might have been right all along, at least about the loser thing. Because, no, it doesn't make sense. He doesn't even know this guy, so what if they had a one-nighter? Johnny doesn’t do that, but there’s a lot of things he’s never done that he still wants to. And what he wants right now is to grab onto last night with both hands, hold onto Gus with both hands, and he’s pretty sure that guys just don’t  _do_  that.

He stands on one foot to pull his socks on, also stupid, because he ends up against the edge of the bed anyway. He feels Gus’ lips on his spine and it takes everything he has not to strip his few clothes right back off and climb on Gus and rocket both of them into oblivion.

“I’ll be there for the OT,” Gus says, against his skin, or at least that’s what it sounds like, and when he looks around there's a smile on Gus’ face, but it looks funny, like it doesn’t really belong there. He realizes, slowly, that it’s uncertainty, and… Gus is not uncertain very much. His lips are a little off kilter, like they don't quite know how to do that.

Johnny opens his mouth to answer and only drags in air; he needs it like he wasn’t even breathing until now. “Uh, yeah. Yeah,” he says, but what he means is really  _yeah_. “Go back to sleep, okay?”

But instead Gus rolls out of bed with a grace that Johnny can only envy, moving to a closet. Johnny doesn’t know where to look: Gus has about the hottest ass he’s ever seen in his life (which, true, isn’t saying  _that_  much) and Lars is probably ballistic by now, so he looks around for his jeans. When he looks up again, Gus is holding a clean shirt that he hands to Johnny with a smile that doesn’t look funny at all this time.

The shirt smells like dryer sheets, but it’s the best thing he’s smelled since Gus’ Thai breath. “Thanks,” he says, and he’s saying it against Gus’ mouth again. He almost forgets everything until he sees the damned clock: a 7 and, now, a 2. “God. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Gus follows him into the outer room, where Johnny finds his jeans and pulls on the shirt Gus gave him. While he sits on an ottoman to put his boots on, Gus moves behind him, rubbing his shoulders with those strong, hard fingers, and if he doesn’t care that his cock is still poking Johnny in the back, well, Johnny’s not going to mention it either.

When he turns, beginning to get to his feet, Gus sinks to his knees, taking Johnny’s face between his hands again. “ _I’m_ sorry,” Gus whispers, punctuating the words with kisses. “I should have set the alarm. It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, and Gus could have just told him he was going to take out a kidney and leave him in a bathtub full of ice for all he knows: Gus is… beautiful, this close, and his eyes must be the colour of the ocean because they’re not a blue Johnny’s ever seen before. He hears the words coming out before he can stop them, and feels the heat rise in his face: Jesus, what is he, fifteen?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It’s the blush that does Gus in: any thought he had at all (which was practically none) about letting this man walk out of his life is gone, just  _gone._  He slides a hand to the back of Johnny’s neck and leans in close.

“And your eyes must be the colour of the sky over the prairie,” he whispers, and he can feel the heat from Johnny’s skin as Johnny’s blush turns scarlet. He doesn’t care: that he can say things like that, and to another man, of all things, is something he never thought he’d have, and he’s not about to let it — or him — go.

Johnny’s  _his_  choice, he realizes with a sense of wonder, feeling Johnny’s mouth part under his again, feeling Johnny’s tongue meeting his, feeling Johnny’s hands slide up his back.

Or maybe they both fell into this sideways, but they fell together, not the calculated (in retrospect) pursuit by a woman he understands now (far too late) was on the rebound  _and_  had her own axe to grind with regards to Nelson and, by extension, the entire Canadian government.

Not that he can blame her for  _that_.

In fact, that’s probably why they got along as well as they did for the first months, at least until winter in a dead fishing village with nothing but sex for recreation did her in, small-town girl or no small-town girl: she’d had a taste of the city and Gus, and Solomon Gundy (or maybe that was the other way around), could never be more than a vacation.

He has a feeling that he’d never be just an itch to scratch with Johnny.

Or maybe he’s too optimistic, or not the judge of character he thought he was, because he fell for Noelle harder than he should have and took her at face value for probably longer than he should have.

His natural sense of justice reasserts itself: he doesn’t think she really knew, or even knows to this day, what she wanted, or wants, and she’s spent too much time in politics to be able to do anything but lie truthfully, even to herself.

And how fair is it that he’s walking down this particular lane of fire with Johnny, eager, honest, and transparently passionate, moaning under his touch, even now sliding to his knees (his  _bad_  knees,  _again_ ) to join Gus on the floor? It would take so little, so little, really, to slide all the way down to the floor, to slide those jeans back down those narrow hips, to slide his legs between Johnny’s, to slide his cock—

Damn ethics, damn mornings, “…damn hockey,” he whispers against Johnny’s neck, trying, with something less than enthusiasm, to push Johnny back and away, trying to recall both of them to reality.

“Hockey,” Johnny says, swallowing, eyes widening. “Lars — God…” He scrambles to find his feet; Gus steadies him, a hand on Johnny’s hip, the other bracing Johnny’s hand on his shoulder. “Gus, I’m — I… sorry, I just…”

He’s blushing  _again_.

Gus watches, fascinated, slowly getting to his own feet.

Johnny looks up, looks down — Gus, amused, doesn’t try to hide his rampant interest — looks up, blushes harder and, astonishingly, holds out his hand. Gus takes it, instinctively, and lets Johnny shake it.

“Thanks,” Johnny’s saying. “For… uh, for everything.” He’s trying to keep his eyes level but the flush isn’t fading from his cheeks.

“My pleasure,” Gus says, feeling his smile broaden.

Johnny’s other hand comes up to clasp Gus’ between his own, and he looks as if he’s about to say more, but then he catches sight of the clock on the wall behind Gus.

“Thanks,” he says again, squeezing Gus’ hand hard with both of his, and then he whirls and is gone.

Gus takes his time getting ready: he’s truly not a morning person, unless he has to be, and there’s a part of him still trying to figure out what just happened, and another part reminding him that if he falls fast, he’s going to fall hard, and while Johnny’s not Noelle, he might not really be Johnny either.

On the other hand, Gus has already fallen.

He digs out a travel mug from the tiny cabinet by the equally tiny microwave and pours the rest of the coffee he made before his shower into it: Johnny’s probably gotten coffee, but if he doesn’t want it Gus can finish it.

The finals are, however,  _not_ at the curling rink, which must have been an auxiliary site. By the time he finds someone who knows where the finals actually are, it’s gone nine and his joke about OT might end up being the truth.

Or would have been, if there’d been an OT. By the time he finds them, down at the university proper, there’s a team on the ice getting gold statuettes; Johnny’s team is milling around the bench and in the corridor leading to the dressing rooms. The score’s still up: they lost, but they don’t seem particularly depressed. When they start getting lined up themselves he realizes why: they came in second and someone’s wheeling a cart onto the ice with little silver statuettes, or hockey pucks, or something.

He watches Johnny for a few minutes, chivvying the kids into position for photographs, the kids in turn insisting the coaches join them. There are some parents on the ice too: Gus wonders if they drove or flew. Hell of a drive, it would be.

He almost sips the coffee before remembering it’s for Johnny, and decides to make his way down to the bench.

He’s not really prepared for Johnny’s reaction when Johnny finally sees him, holding up the coffee cup and indicating it with a nod of his head. Johnny’s eyes widen, impossibly large, and he drops the sheaf of papers he’s holding. Another guy — probably Lars — stops to help pick them up, and Gus can see Johnny almost tear his eyes away to look down, gather his papers, still glancing at Gus distractedly.

It wasn’t that Gus was late.

He hadn’t expected Gus to show up at  _all_.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Johnny’d found a cab in front of the hotel and so manages to make it to the hostel just as Lars is coming out the front door, cell phone in hand. He looks pissed, but Johnny’d expected that, and he isn’t ballistic after all.

“Did you get lost looking for Tim Horton’s?”

“I  _way_  overslept,” Johnny says, and the emergence of several kids behind Lars prevents Lars from saying anything more: the coach is still beyond reproach, at least in front of the players.

It takes all his concentration to get even half his mind on his team. The other half is trying to deal with the abruptness with which he’d gone from one world to another, and he wonders if the early explorers, or maybe the Gimli settlers, had gone through this. Back in the day, you had time to get used to going from Scotland, or Iceland, to Canada, you had time to get used to the frontier, you had months, sometimes, on a ship’s crossing… but now you can be halfway around the world in a day where it took Henry Hudson or John Franklin months and years.

There’s a part of him he left behind in that hotel on the canal and he misses it, even though he knew it for less than a day. He wonders, checking the players in and signing the insurance papers, accepting a coffee from one of the parent volunteers, if he _could_  go back, now, could find it again.

Or he could just be really,  _really_  pathetic.

It’s a good thing Manny’s taken over the shift changes: Johnny’s head is anywhere but the game, no matter how hard he tries. Lars notices but the kids don’t seem to, but then Lars has been his assistant coach since before — well, Lars knows Johnny pretty well, as well as anyone nowadays who’s not Eric.

A lucky shot by the other team, a few pucks hitting the pipes for his guys, and it’s over, 4 — 3. Fortunately he’s never gotten too excited about losing so the kids are pretty philosophical about it. And he wouldn’t say it now, but maybe he will tonight: the fact that they’d gotten here at all was a bonus, and second place — there’s nothing to be ashamed of there, even if it’s not a total win.

Kari and Janna are passing out sports drinks, distracting the kids a little from the first-place presentation on the ice. Some of the kids watch, especially Luce, Manny’s son. He’s a goaltender through and through, and has been since Johnny saw him the first time, throwing his gloves and stick to the ice after losing an exhibition game. He takes every loss personally. Johnny pushes through the kids to bend down and tell him that the pipes just weren’t working for them today. Luce doesn’t quite smile, but he does look at Johnny, and then takes a drink from Kari.

Johnny’s pretty sure he’ll end up going to Worlds, and that’ll be a feather in Manitoba’s cap too: Québec’s not the only province that can turn out insanely talented (or maybe just insane) net minders.

Lars squeezes Johnny’s shoulder as he slips by to talk to one of the rink personnel: Johnny knows Lars was hoping a gold would change Johnny’s mind, and probably thinks Johnny’s taking this harder than he really is.

Lars is motioning him over; the rink guy is telling them where to set up for the best pictures, like they hadn’t seen the other team in the same place, and congratulating them.

Turns out that the guy’s also a fan, a Regina transplant who remembers Johnny, and he asks for an autograph before the conversation is finished. To Johnny’s relief the guy does  _not_ have his rookie card and they settle on a program from the tournament. Coming away, Lars is grinning broadly, evidently thinking this is something Johnny’ll miss too, and he calls Johnny “Slipper” as they’re heading to the ice to wrangle the kids into position for the pictures.

Janna and Bill are taking pictures even before the trophies are passed out, and Johnny’s got to admit that the tournament’s a class act: the kids each get individual trophies, plus a large one for the team to take home.

After a few more photos the kids start yelling for the coaches and the team mom, Kari, to come join them, and Lars pushes Johnny ahead of him so he ends up by Luce, who’s been having trouble mustering a smile. He raps Luce’s skull with a knuckle and gets a grin in return. A few more pictures and they’re done, the kids already fooling around, pushing each other, starting an impromptu curling match with their trophies. While Johnny and Lars are discussing lunch, the tournament people bring stuff on a clipboard them to sign, handing over their copies after.

He’s managed to push last night, and Gus, mostly out of his head, so when he’s heading back across the ice to the bench and sees Gus a few rows up, holding up a cup of coffee and nodding at him, it’s like he just got hit in the chest with a slapshot. He drops the papers from fingers that suddenly can’t feel anything but Gus’ face, and can’t concentrate long enough to even gather them together again and pick them up: luckily Arne takes pity on him and stops to help.

He can’t help looking at Gus, trying not to stare, trying not to wonder why he’s there, trying not to feel… whole again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As he nears the bench it becomes obvious that the team’s making plans to go get pizza somewhere. The hubbub’s reassuring and gives Gus a chance to cope with his realization even while he decides how, or if he should even try, to handle it. Johnny meets his eyes across the length of the bench, the groove on the side of his mouth deepening in what Gus knows now is a hidden smile. “Cold coffee,” he mouths, holding up the cup again, and Johnny’s smile is suddenly blinding.

A man standing near him, not the man who helped him pick up the papers, looks at Johnny and then over at Gus, then says something to Johnny, who responds with a few words and a nod.

A set of parents claims Johnny’s attention then; but the man Johnny spoke to is making his way through the kids, smacking some of them on the head as he goes and telling them to get to the dressing room. By the time he’s reached Gus, Gus knows he’s being invited to the pizza, so he holds out a hand: “Gus Knickel.”

“Lars Anderssen,” the guy says, shaking it hard. “Slipper tells me you’re a fan.”

Gus has a few seconds to wonder about “Slipper,” but he has to admire Johnny’s ability to think on his feet. ‘Oh, him? That’s the guy I spent the night with…’

Yeah. Um.

“We’re heading over to Fida’s for lunch,” Lars is saying, looking at him expectantly.

Lunch. He’s forgotten that kids could eat anything, any time, especially if pizza or ice cream was involved.

“Sounds great,” he says, tucking his hand back into his jacket pocket. “Just tell me where.”

It turns out that the tournament’s arranged something with a local place and it’s within walking distance, but it’s apparent Gus isn’t going to be able to get near Johnny for a while.

Given their propensity to forget everything else when they’re within arms’ reach of one another, that’s probably — no, definitely — a good thing.

Lars accompanies him, evidently having appointed himself Johnny’s friend’s sheepdog, and while Gus is suitably (though not effusively) grateful, he’s smiling inside: it would take more than an unknown pizza place to pry him away from Johnny now, particularly since Johnny was apparently fucking saying  _goodbye_  this morning  _and_  is planning, in the near future, to disappear into the Canadian wilderness leaving no forwarding address.

Lars is asking him how long he’s known Johnny and Gus has to think fast: “A while now,” he says, grateful now for the year and a half with Noelle and her tutoring in political-speak.

“Since his rookie year?” Lars says, not really a question; and Gus realises that a plump pigeon has fallen into his lap and, no, he is  _not_ above pumping this very accommodating man for more information.

So he makes an affirmative noise, trying to sound encouraging. It’s almost like meeting with the Government people, who tend to fill silences with concessions.

“Damn knees,” and Lars is shaking his head. “He can still skate, that’s the amazing thing. They just wouldn’t hold up to 80 games a year.”

A few more pieces of the puzzle fall into place: Johnny accepting the water; Johnny’s eyes clouding over when he thought Gus “recognized” him…

“At least he’s coaching,” Gus says, guessing that Lars is one of the people who wants Johnny to stay on.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lars says, sounding even more enthusiastic, and ‘sheepdog’ is turning out to have been apt. If he were a border collie he’d be jumping up and down and knocking things over with his tail. “He’s turned out to have a real knack for the kids. Too bad he couldn’t do it sooner, eh.”

It’s really almost too easy.

He’s ascertained, among other things, how Lars feels about Johnny’s projected tour of Canada (“Empty nest syndrome, now that Eric’s going to university”), how the team got to Ottawa (“the bus has two televisions”), when they’re planning to start for home (“the kids want to see the Hockey Hall of Fame”), if Johnny’s going with them (“He’s heading on to Montréal to see Eric’s university,” accompanied by a knowing look), and other salient information by the time they arrive at the pizzeria and troop upstairs to the large, open hall on the first floor.

All right, so Gus  _had_  thought of it yesterday, when he’d barely met Johnny, but now he knows that he’s not whistling down the wind.


	4. Laissez-aller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the past twenty-four hours, Johnny’s pretty sure nothing will ever surprise him again, so the appearance of Gus at his elbow after the order is finally placed does nothing more than send a shiver down his spine.

## IV. Laissez-aller

After the past twenty-four hours, Johnny’s pretty sure nothing will  _ever_  surprise him again, so the appearance of Gus at his elbow after the order is finally placed does nothing more than send a shiver down his spine. He hopes he’s not turning red, but Gus, casual, even offhand, just comments on the appetites of boys with a sidelong glance and a grin that’s enough to set Johnny’s heart pounding.

He lifts a hand but realizes in time that he can’t touch Gus’ face here, and scratches his own head instead.

“Slipper?” Gus says next, and this time Johnny does turn red. He should have known that Lars would interpret “a fan” as Johnny’s, not the kids’, and it’s his own fault for not being more specific.

“Big fish, small pond?” and Gus’ smile takes any sting out of the words.

“Medium-sized fish, very small pond,” Johnny says, grinning back.

“No,” Gus says, sounding thoughtful, “I think ‘big’ was the word I wanted.”

Johnny wonders for a fantastic moment if there’s a bathroom handy, or if they could crawl under a table without being noticed, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, hoping to camouflage the effect Gus is having on him.

The arrival of trays of breadsticks provides a welcome distraction for both Johnny and, he hopes, Lars, who’s watching him and Gus proudly.

“I understand the caravan rolls out some time this afternoon,” Gus says, and his voice is much quieter now, even though it’s doubtful anyone can hear them over the chatter.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, nodding. “It’s about —”

“Do you mind if I stick to you like a burr until then, or would you prefer to give me your word that you’ll stop by my hotel before you set off for Montréal?”

Gus is smiling, but there’s steel in his voice too, and Johnny blinks, amazed and confused.

“I… uh…”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus is immediately contrite: he hadn’t realized, until the words actually left his mouth, that he’s  _angry_  with Johnny for assuming… well, for assuming far too many things, including the lack of his own desirability and a surfeit of Gus’ dishonourable intentions.

And just so things are equitable, he’s angry with himself for making too many assumptions about Johnny from the start and not making himself completely clear at the  _not-_ end.

“I want…” he begins, then stops:  _want_  isn’t close to being accurate, and it’s clear he has to be completely, irreversibly accurate with a man as guileless as Johnny, “I  _need_  to see you again.”

He lets all the naked want, the necessary need, suffuse his voice, remembering to keep quiet only at the last second.

Johnny’s eyes are like crystal; he nods once, short, sharp, then looks at the floor. It’s all Gus can do not to touch him, gather him close, kiss him senseless, strip him down and —

He makes a show of looking at his watch, patting a pocket as if remembering an appointment, and saying in a normal tone of voice that he’s got to see a man about a dog. He can tell by Johnny’s bewildered face that Gus has left him not knowing which way is up, but as long as he shows up this afternoon, Gus doesn’t really _care._

In the hallway, where it’s entirely natural for Johnny to step out with him to see him off, he pulls Johnny near and risks a swift kiss on one side of his mouth. “Just so we’re clear,” he whispers, close to Johnny’s ear, “I’m no more in the habit of picking up men by canals than you are in going home with them.”

Johnny’s hand, still in his where Gus pulled them together, tightens; and this time he looks Gus in the eye, not smiling, but the blind shattered look is gone now and it’s Johnny looking at him again,  _seeing_  him again.

“740,” Gus says, one last squeeze before he releases Johnny’s hand.

“I know,” Johnny says, his voice so quiet Gus has to strain to hear him. “I…”

“Be seeing you,” Gus says, touching Johnny’s cheek with the back of his hand and turning to go.

“Wait,” Johnny says, reaching into a back pocket. “Wait.” He’s pulling out his cell phone, a small blue-and-grey folding affair. “Take it. This.”

He’s stumbling over the words but Gus understands immediately. It’s still warm from Johnny, and he lets his fingers move over it, caressing it the way he would like to, intends to, caress the skin of Johnny’s face, and his back, and his thighs, and —

A voice is raised from the room, calling for Johnny: Gus tucks the cell phone into the same pocket Johnny uses, clasps Johnny’s hand quickly, and takes the stairs two at a time, the physical separation feeling like someone’s tearing a bandage off him, slowly and painfully.

He remembers to tell the front desk that he’s expecting Johnny, with luggage, and gets a keycard for him: he’s had one, and only one, run-in with an officious flunky and intends to make sure Johnny doesn’t encounter the same.

He orders room service, fruit and cheese, not because he’s hungry but because he’s tired of pacing. By two o’clock he’s convinced that Johnny thinks —  _knows_  — he’s crazy and has therefore gone back to Winnipeg with the rest of the team.

At three he opens the bottle of wine that he’d forgotten to tell them to omit when he ordered the fruit and cheese.

The bottle is all but gone and it’s past four when Johnny’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

“Hi,” and Johnny sounds breathless. “Some problems came up and we had to change the reservations, but, uh, it’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” Gus echoes, too inured to a hard-drinking life to actually be affected by three-quarters of a bottle of wine but suddenly flushed with relief. “Where are you?”

“The lobby,” Johnny says, and Gus can hear the smile. “Lars will be calling me in about twenty minutes to tell me they forgot something or that someone’s thrown up, so —”

“I’ll toss the fucking phone out the window,” Gus says and hangs up, Johnny’s laughter echoing in his brain.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus is waiting in the doorway, and Johnny can feel the impatience, almost like waves rolling off him, from halfway down the corridor.

Gus takes his bag without ceremony, pulling Johnny in and pushing the door shut hard. His hands are on Johnny’s face before Johnny has time to open his mouth, but he doesn’t kiss Johnny, just looks at him searchingly. Johnny can smell alcohol on his breath and wonders if Gus has been getting drunk, which actually doesn’t sound like a bad way to end this part of his day.

“I meant it,” Gus says at last. “All of it.”

One of his thumbs is stroking Johnny’s jaw, almost as if he’s unaware of it. Johnny reaches up, covering Gus’ hand with his own. “I know,” he says, although he doesn’t, not really, except that Gus showed up with cold coffee and kissed him in the hallway of a pizzeria.

And, really, that’s all Johnny does need to know.

“I have a few more days here,” Gus says then. “I’d like — I want you to stay. I’ll take you to Montréal when I’m finished.”

“You don’t —”

“Johnny,” and Gus’ voice is as warm and sweet as melted honey and butter, “I.  _Want_.”

Johnny sucks in an incredulous breath and throws caution to the wind, not for the first time, sure, but the first time in a long time, pulling Gus in, swallowing the words Gus is whispering between them, a deep, dark whisper that sends sparks tingling up his spine and down his cock.

He wants  _too._

By the time they pull apart, Johnny’s jeans are unfastened and his — Gus’ — shirt is bunched around his neck. Gus isn’t in much better shape, although he (unfairly) started without shoes and socks.

“Here’s a thought,” Gus says, turning to the counter behind them, turning back with a glass of wine for Johnny. “Let’s actually start with the bed this time.”

Johnny takes the glass automatically, touching Gus’ fingertips, and suddenly they’re in each other’s arms again, Gus nibbling Johnny’s jaw, lower lip, chin, Johnny trying not to spill the wine tucked between them, trying to find Gus’ ear with his tongue, succeeding in finding Gus’ ass with his other hand.

When Gus’ lips fasten on Johnny’s neck, sucking soft and hard, Johnny chokes, upends the wine, swallowing too fast, and sets the glass down with a clatter. Gus chokes too, laughing and pulling Johnny close for another long, breathless kiss before beginning to maneuver them both backwards, towards the French doors that Johnny hadn’t noticed until just this moment. They find their own rhythm, but by the time they’ve actually reached the bed Johnny’s about to go off, heart thundering in his chest, cock throbbing in time with the pulse pounding in his ears.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They need to talk but Gus is an empiricist: other needs are more pressing for both of them, and have been since yesterday — this morning — right  _now_ , in fact. He pushes Johnny back onto the bed and pulls off his boots. Johnny, not to be outdone, is already wriggling out of his jeans and underwear, his shirt having been lost somewhere between the kitchenette and the bed. Gus strips his own shirt off, shucks the rest of his clothes and leans in and over Johnny to kiss him again, slowly lowering himself, luxuriating in the full body contact he’s been craving since sometime after seven this morning.

“God,  _Gus_  —” and Johnny’s head is back, teeth in his lower lip, eyes shut tight and fingers digging into Gus’ hips, and Gus feels him surging against his belly, just about  _perfect_  and everything Gus had imagined at the Thai place, only  _better_.

He holds Johnny, reveling in the feel of the warm slickness between them, the way Johnny’s gone boneless beneath him, the way Johnny’s hips are still moving, minutely, pressing up against him every few seconds and trapping Gus’ cock in the wetness between them, bellies smoothing out with each tiny stroke.

Gus gives up, gives in: they have all night, this time, and there’s nothing he needs more right now than to feel himself jerking against Johnny, moaning words, himself, that echo Johnny’s a few moments past, feeling Johnny’s hands on his ass, holding him close, pulling him closer as Johnny scatters kisses across Gus’ collarbone, gasping along with Gus at the end.

“God,” Johnny whispers into Gus’ neck after a few minutes.

“God,” Gus agrees drowsily, already falling towards sleep, the stress of the past six hours a quickly receding memory. Johnny shifts under him; Gus moves to accommodate him; and the last thing he remembers is Johnny’s hand in the small of his back, thumb moving in slow, idle circles.

He wakes before Johnny and spends a few self-indulgent moments watching him sleep, ghosting a kiss along Johnny’s cheekbone, watching Johnny’s mouth move into a more content expression than before. When Johnny finally begins to stir, Gus pulls him closer and begins to kiss him, slowly, thoughtfully, memorizing every feeling, every taste, every sensation, trying to kiss Johnny the way Johnny kisses him.

Johnny’s skin tastes of salt and silk and his cock is swelling (again) between them already. Gus samples his shoulder, the indentation in his breastbone, one nipple, then the other, Johnny writhing beneath him now, a hand in Gus’ hair and unintelligible words on his lips, his cock rubbing against Gus’ chest.

The soft skin of his belly is salt and bitter musk and makes Gus long for the sea, realising only now that he’s missed the crash of waves and the sounds the wind makes, howling, whistling, rustling, whispering, and he whispers these things against Johnny’s skin, against the sharp bone of Johnny’s hip where it juts, a promontory on a headland.

Johnny’s balls are tight and smooth, moving in time with his breathing and his abortive thrusts: Gus has an arm across Johnny’s hips and is taking his time here, as he has everywhere else, determined to learn everything Johnny’s been so willing to teach.

When his tongue finds the smoothness behind Johnny’s balls, Johnny arches his back, stuttering something and reaching for his cock. “No,” Gus whispers, sucking there for a few moments, then dipping lower, holding Johnny’s captured hand by the wrist, rubbing his thumb across the soft skin on the inside.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Waking, again, in Gus’ bed, in Gus’ arms, and it’s like a replay of the morning, only this time there’s nothing he has to do, nowhere he has to be, just here, touching, tasting, feeling Gus against him, hard muscle, soft skin, callused strong hands nothing at all like — like a woman’s, everything that Johnny never knew he wanted until now.

Nothing they’ve done has seemed rushed, but now it seems Gus is really taking his time, and Johnny luxuriates in the feel of Gus’ tongue on his skin, tongue and lips and sometimes teeth, in the feel of Gus’ skin under his fingers, skin and face and hair.

Gus is moving lower and Johnny realizes he’s holding his breath: but there’s no point, since Gus bypasses his cock, bracing his arm across Johnny’s hips and exploring Johnny below the waist every bit as thoroughly as he’s been doing above. Gus is saying things, things Johnny can’t make out but doesn’t need to hear to know, to feel, deep in his bones, deep in his belly, deep in his  _soul_.

Johnny can’t help writhing at the feel of Gus’ tongue on his balls, behind his balls, moving lower then, finding a spot Johnny never knew existed. He’s jolted upwards, his back arching, his hand reaching for his aching cock, but Gus is too fast for him, murmuring more words against his skin he can’t make out, grabbing his wrist and holding him down.

When his tongue dips lower Johnny has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t howl, doesn’t bring the hotel staff down on them like refs trying to avoid a bench clearing brawl, and the sudden pain backs him down for about a half second.

He supposes, in some dim corner of his mind, that he knew people did this, but he never dreamt of it, never even crossed his mind to think about it, let alone  _want_  it, and as Gus’ tongue slides around and then in, Johnny gives up, letting his orgasm overtake him, shaking him from his toes to his head, exploding in ways he never knew were possible without ever being _touched._

When he opens his eyes, still breathing like he’s just come off a three minute shift, Gus is staring at him, a soft amazed smile on his face that Johnny can’t help trying to imitate. Gus’ hand is gentle on Johnny’s stomach, rubbing circles, his thumb catching the bottom of Johnny’s rib cage every so often.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Johnny’s staring up at him like he’s just forgotten every word he ever knew. Gus is similarly speechless: whatever he expected, it wasn’t this.

He lets his hand slide up Johnny’s side to one nipple, sliding up himself, just like last night, reveling in the feel of the soft-rough hair on Johnny’s thigh against his erection.

Johnny’s still breathing hard, lips parted slightly, and Gus leans in, slow, hypnotized, feeling Johnny breathing beneath him, against him…

He’s still trying hard keep it slow without quite understanding why, except that he wants to stretch every moment with Johnny out as long as he can. He shifts, and Johnny moves with him, spreading his legs. And Gus has to raise up on his elbows, then his hands, just to look down, just to see Johnny spread out beneath him.

“My God,” he whispers, dragging his eyes back up to Johnny’s face, “Johnny…”

“Yeah,” Johnny whispers back, and neither of them is really making any sense but it doesn’t matter. Then Johnny’s hand is behind his neck, pulling him down, and Johnny’s legs are wrapping around him, and Johnny’s pelvis is tilting up so Gus can feel all of him, cock to cock, balls and balls, and he’s a minute, maybe less, from ecstasy.

“Yeah,” Johnny says again, and he can feel Johnny arching, straining beneath him. He drops his head to Johnny’s shoulder and drives fast, faster, Johnny meeting him thrust for thrust, hurtling towards the edge.

Johnny’s saying his name over and over and Gus raises his head, blindly seeking Johnny’s mouth, groaning into it, telling Johnny how much he wants him, how much he wants to fuck him, telling Johnny he’s going to fuck him  _soon_ ; and when Johnny urges him on, when Johnny says, “Now,” in a voice like melted chocolate, Gus tumbles off the cliff, splashing into the surf and letting Johnny’s breathing lap around him like waves, hands soothing him and holding him close.

It’s falling dark when he wakes again, after Johnny this time, Johnny watching him, eyes catching the fading light from the window.

Gus stares back at him for a few moments, memorizing how he looks: steady, sweet, lips curved up, a nose that seems almost too long but then isn’t, creases in his brow that seem to be a part of the map of his life, and Gus wishes for a moment that his face was as interesting.

He says as much, just to see Johnny’s face change, and maybe to see the heat rise, because he knew it would.

But despite his embarrassment, Johnny leans in close, tracing Gus’ lips with the tip of his finger: “I wish I had your mouth,” he says, close in. “Watching it move, it’s like…”

Gus closes the distance between them with a gentle kiss, telling Johnny, at the end, that he’s welcome to it, any time, and Johnny grins broadly.

“I thought room service tonight,” Gus says then. “Unless…”

Johnny’s eyes widen: “Room service… wow.” He stretches like a cat, luxurious, cracking bones all over his body, it seems. “The hostel had a kitchen.”

Gus wonders if it would be possible to conduct the next few days of business via conference call: he’s sure, at this moment, that he never wants to leave this bed. He chooses to push that thought out of his mind for the moment and rolls over to get the room service menu from the drawer of the nightstand. When he rolls back, Johnny settles in close, as if they’ve been together for years, resting his head on Gus’ arm so they can look at it together.

He really needs to stop comparing them, but Noelle was never particularly… well, cuddly is the best word, actually, to describe Johnny, and it’s possible, he supposes, that one day he could voice that thought without getting punched in the nose.

They decide on steak frites and Gus orders a salade Lyonnaise just so Johnny can try it: Johnny’s already made him laugh twice, trying to interpret the French side of the menu, clowning, Gus realizes with a certain amount of satisfaction, on purpose,  _trying_  to make Gus laugh.

When Gus rolls over to order, Johnny heads to the bathroom, coming out a few minutes later scratching the back of his neck and looking abashed. “Did you see that tub?” he says when Gus puts the phone back on the cradle.


	5. Revenons à nos ours polaires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let us return to our polar bears.

##  V. Revenons à nos ours polaires

It was either the wrong thing or the right thing to say, but the upshot was probably inevitable, given Gus, who seems to take the idea of “sensual” to a whole new level.

So, yeah, they end up in the tub, the jets on gentle, Gus resting in front of Johnny, eyes closed and head to one side on Johnny’s chest, Johnny resting his head in turn on the sloped backrest, unimaginable feelings, unimaginable luxury surrounding him and he’s pretty sure he isn’t thinking of the tub.

He wonders if Gus meant it, earlier; and if he meant it, himself, when he agreed. Well, if Gus laughs, it’s all good: he’s amazing any way you take him, but the rich chuckle is a sound Johnny’s already craving.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, eyes still closed, head still back, hands linked beneath Gus’ arms, across his chest.

“Mmm,” Gus says, shifting up a little. “What? Which?”

That makes Johnny laugh, gives him the courage to go on: “Us, uh…”

Gus goes still for a few seconds, then: “Yeah,” in a voice that suddenly makes Johnny understand what “sultry” means for the first time in his life. “You. And me.  _Soon_.”

Before he knows what he’s doing, Johnny’s hand is in Gus’ hair, smoothing it back, and Gus’ eyes are closing again: Johnny can see his eyelashes against the curve of his cheekbones, and his mouth curving up at the corner.

He’s got every right to feel smug, Johnny thinks, because the emotions now churning in Johnny’s stomach do not, amazingly, include panic.

Yet.

He lets his head fall back again, closing his eyes and wondering, in a lot more detail now, exactly what will happen and what it really will feel like.

“About tomorrow,” Gus says after a while, his voice drowsy. Johnny makes a sound: he feels drowsy too, or at least relaxed. “Just so we’re clear,” Gus continues, and Johnny can feel his body tensing. “I’m in… negotiations, if you will, with the Government and… the woman helping me… I lived with her for a while, a few years ago.”

Johnny’s tensing too, trying to figure out why Gus is telling him this.

“She tends to call me ‘ _mon amour_ ,’ among other things,” Gus is saying. “Depending on her mood, or the status of the negotiations, of course. So if she calls, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

Johnny shuffles the words around in his head and then asks cautiously, “What idea?”

To his relief, Gus chuckles, then laughs out loud, pulling one of Johnny’s hands up to his mouth and lavishing a kiss on his palm. “ _That_  idea,” he says, when he can. “It’s over. It’s been over.”

“Oh,” Johnny says after a few moments, more because he thinks Gus expects a response than because he actually has one. “Is that why the, uh, expense account?”

“Exactly,” Gus says, twisting enough to look up at Johnny’s face.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” Johnny asks, wondering if there’s some kind of expense… limit.

“Absolutely,” Gus says, and his voice leaves no doubt. “Suite, government rate, and I got you a keycard, by the way.”

“Good,” Johnny says, “because I know my budget won’t stretch to this.”

Gus laughs again, as Johnny’d hoped, and he takes the plunge: fair’s fair.

“I was married,” he says quietly.

But Gus only nods: “I thought you might have been. Divorced?”

“No,” Johnny says, and realizes too late he’s gripping Gus’ arms hard. He lets go, rubbing where he’d been holding. “She… died. Three years ago.”

Gus goes very still, then begins to turn.

“No,” Johnny says, “please. I… there’s more.” He takes a breath, trying to figure out why he’s telling Gus, and what he’s telling Gus: “You can’t… Eric doesn’t know. He can’t know. If you ever meet him, I mean.”

“I will,” Gus murmurs, sliding his hands up Johnny’s arms to hold him.

“She was… it wasn’t always good, we separated when Eric — after Eric had been living with us for a year, and he didn’t — couldn’t handle it. So I turned the job down, the first time, because we’d just gotten back together and it was… I thought it was fixed. It… it wasn’t. Later she left me, was leaving me for, uh, Eric’s friend’s dad, my best… one of my friends. She left a note. When I found it, after the accident, I burned it.”

His eyes are shut tight: he’s trying not to relive that time, those moments, the realization, the smell, with him to this day, of burnt paper in the sink.

Gus’ voice, gentle, prosaic, brings him back: “That was… very kind, Johnny.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Johnny shrugs, lifting one hand to rub the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, his voice distant. “Yeah, I… it was… yeah. I suppose.”

Gus is suddenly, absolutely certain that he is the only person Johnny’s ever told about this, and he rolls onto his stomach, catching a faceful of water and spluttering like a walrus. By the time he’s wiped his eyes and coughed up the water, Johnny’s face is tranquil again, composed, but his eyes… his eyes are still distant.

Gus wants to tell him that she wasn’t worth it, but who is he to judge? Johnny loved her: she was worth it to him. And Eric loved her, and Johnny’s preserved her memory for him… but Gus wonders at what cost to Johnny himself.

With remarkably bad timing, the door buzzes. Gus leans in to kiss Johnny quickly, lightly, then goes over the side of the tub and snags a robe from the back of the door. “There’s another one,” he says over his shoulder, heading to the other room. He’s not surprised that Johnny doesn’t make an appearance, and he waits until after the door’s closed behind the waiter to call to him. Between the revelations — dead wife, ex-NHL player who thought he was straight until about this time yesterday — Johnny may be planning to spend the next few days in bed, if not actually under it.

Johnny’s found the other robe and his hair’s standing on end. Gus has to concentrate hard on the idea of actually eating dinner while it’s hot, but when he looks up again from the table, Johnny’s looking back at him with what’s probably a very similar expression.

“Yeah,” Gus says meaninglessly. “It’s hot.”

“Yeah,” Johnny echoes, reaching for the back of the closest chair and holding onto it with both hands, his knuckles showing white.

Gus stares at him a moment longer, then says, “To hell with it,” and pulls the chair away from Johnny.

Robes beat clothes all to hell, he thinks a few minutes later, and makes a mental note to buy one — no, two — before returning to Solomon Gundy. He’s backed Johnny against the wall, sinking to his knees to savor the clean bitter taste of him. By the time Johnny’s sliding down the wall, both robes are on the floor, a nest of thick terrycloth, padding for his knees, then for Johnny’s, as they switch positions, then alternate, then — to Gus’ shock and utter delight — Johnny swivels, reaching up and pulling Gus’ hips down, his lips brushing the head of Gus’ cock just as Gus’ mouth closes over Johnny’s.

The rhythm is too easy to find, too easy to maintain, and Gus is closer than he wants to be faster than he wants to be, and he breaks off, breathing Johnny’s name, pulling Johnny’s flank down.

Johnny follows his hand’s direction until they’re both lying in the nest of robes, on their sides, and he’s kissing the inside of Gus’ thighs, stroking Gus’ cock, then licking, then sucking, and Gus wants to pull him off, wants to prolong it, but he  _can’t_ , can’t stop, can’t  _breathe_  —

Then Johnny’s cock is jerking, pulsing into his mouth, just a few beats behind Gus’ cock in Johnny’s mouth, another amazing thing and all Gus can do is swallow, swallow and breathe and moan around the hard warm flesh in his mouth, Johnny’s thighs contracting on either side of his head as Johnny gasps around Gus’ cock.

Dinner’s just warm, by the time they get to it, but it’s never hard to eat steak or frites and it shouldn’t really surprise him that they end up on the couch together eating the rest of the frites, finishing the wine, sharing the very conventional chocolate mousse, but (in some ways) it does.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says after a while, into Johnny’s hair, where Johnny’s tucked up against him, eyes closed. Johnny’s hand tightens on his thigh, thumb rubbing across his skin: still awake, then. “You said ‘east’…”

“I did,” Johnny murmurs, still not opening his eyes. “Labrador, Newfoundland. Cape Spear, yeah?”

“Driving? Flying?”

Johnny thinks for a minute, opening his eyes and looking ahead, then shifting to look up at Gus. “Where the wind takes me,” he says, and the smile on his face is nothing short of breathtaking.

It was inevitable, Gus thinks wryly, that one day he’d meet someone even more romantic than he is. It just figures it would be Johnny Jóhannsson.

It’s some time later, Johnny now tucked between Gus and the back of the couch, lips swollen, eyelids drowsy, the smell of the sea surrounding them, before Gus is able to resume the conversation.

“Labrador, Newfoundland, Cape Spear,” he says, smoothing his thumb across Johnny’s lips.

Johnny nibbles at the tip of Gus’ thumb, nodding.

“So… Montréal, Québec City…”

“I don’t know,” Johnny admits, finally opening his eyes. “There’s a map in my bag. Looks like a straight shot up to Port Cartier and across to, uh…”

“Blanc-Sablon,” Gus says, trying not to smile, then giving up and laughing from deep inside his chest, having, at the end, to wipe tears from his eyes. When he finally regains control, Johnny’s looking up at him, with a smile that can’t be called anything but tender, lifting one hand to touch the corner of Gus’ mouth.

“Let me guess…”

“You could hitch a ride with some polar bears,” Gus says, which sets him off again, despite the fact that he really  _doesn’t_ want Johnny to think he’s laughing at him.

But Johnny’s still watching him, the same smile on his face as before, and he lifts a finger to wipe the wetness from the corner of Gus’ eye. “I don’t think there are even  _roads_  in parts of southeastern Québec,” Gus says finally. “You’re better off going up to Trois-Rivières and across the Maritimes, catch the ferry from Sydney to Port aux Basques.”

He might as well be speaking French: Johnny just blinks at him.

He blinks back, solemnly, and Johnny’s mouth curves into a reluctant smile.

“It’s farther than I think?” he says, obviously guessing.

“2500 kilometers, give or take,” Gus says. “How far is it to Winnipeg?”

“Not that far,” Johnny says, and then he’s dissolving into laughter beneath Gus, so infectious that soon Gus is laughing with him. “And,” Johnny gasps, pushing his fingers into Gus’ chest between every word, “there are roads  _all_  the way there and back, even if you  _don’t_  cut through the States.”

“What about polar bears?” Gus asks, which of course sets them both off again.

Their amusement seems to segue, naturally, into more kissing, more touching, and Gus is nuzzling a spot behind Johnny’s ear before he remembers (again) his point, which he keeps fucking  _forgetting_. “My idea,” he whispers in that spot just behind Johnny’s ear just to feel Johnny surge against him, just to hear the breathless sound he knows Johnny will make.

“Trois-Rivières, Maritimes,” Johnny gasps, one hand holding Gus tight at the shoulder. “Ferry. Sydney.”

“Or,” Gus says, pulling Johnny’s robe aside to bare a nipple, rubbing a finger across it, “catch a flight with me in Montréal to St. John’s.”

Johnny’s grip slackens and he frowns at Gus, honestly puzzled.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus has the drive Johnny lacks, always has lacked, always will lack, and Johnny’s not sure he can keep up. “Montréal? But —”

“I’ll change my flight,” Gus says, leaning in close, seductive, like he even needs to try, and, actually, he’s probably not even trying, it’s probably just  _Gus_ , “I’m on CanJet, they’re never full — I’m sure it won’t be a problem. If you don’t mind foregoing the adventure of actually getting to Newfoundland, that is.”

To be honest, Johnny hasn’t given it much though beyond looking at the map of Canada, first with Eric, later with some of the kids on the team, but since his lack of forethought has provided Gus with, probably,  _hours_  of amusement, he cuts himself a break.

“Hitchhiking might be kind of hard to do on the ferry,” he says, trying to keep a straight face. “I’d probably have been better off with the polar bears.”

Gus’ eyes widen, and he actually looks surprised for the first time since Johnny’s met him.

“I wasn’t planning to rent a car,” Johnny says at last, “what with the whole ‘adventure’ thing and all.”

Gus stares at him for a few seconds and then shakes his head. “I  _am_  getting old,” he says roughly, “and I suppose you have a tent and a sleeping bag with you?”

“I was planning to pick those up later,” Johnny says with perfect truth.

Gus shakes his head again, beginning to smile. “So you’re  _not_  wedded to the idea of adventuring across the Maritimes. Come with me to St. John’s — I’ll take you to Cape Spear, and…”

Johnny, busy exploring the webbing between Gus’ fingers with his tongue, stops when Gus is quiet for longer than he’s expecting, and looks up.

Gus, surprised; Gus, blushing… Johnny’s not sure what to make of either.

“Okay,” he says simply.

“And… okay what?”

“Just okay,” Johnny says. Because, really, Gus blushing? He could be asking for Johnny’s  _other_  kidney and there’s no way Johnny could begin to say no.

“Just like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Come with me to Solomon Gundy,” Gus says, voice even rougher than before, almost breaking at the end. “We’ll finish confederating and then…”

The uncertainty is back, but this time Johnny knows what it is,  _why_  it is. “Yeah,” he says again, leaning up to Gus’ mouth, trying to kiss it back into shape. He has no idea what Gus is talking about, but he knows what Gus means, and it’s okay, it’s _all_  okay.

“…a few weeks,” Gus is saying. “Stay with me. And then… if you want… company…”

Johnny swallows hard. “I wasn’t… still not, I mean, the easiest person to, uh, live with,” he hears himself saying, wondering if Gus has a caboose.

“If you’re thinking it’s going to be room service and four-posters, don’t worry,” Gus says, his mouth quirking into a smile. “I don’t live like this at home. I  _do_  have a bed, and Bunsy stops in to make breakfast from time to time, but he usually makes enough for everyone. I might have to come back to Ottawa but if everything goes well this week, probably not.”

Johnny takes a breath: Gus makes it seem so easy. “Yeah,” he says finally, not looking at Gus. “I’d think I’d like company, what with the polar bears and all.”

Then Gus’ mouth is on his again, and he’s pretty sure the ocean  _couldn’t_  taste any better than this.

**Author's Note:**

> **merci**
> 
> Thanks to theamusedone for amazing intellectual honesty beta, Värttinä, knowing Hildegard von Bingen, and introducing me to my latest passion, Nordic music. There's no way I could have done this without him.
> 
> Thanks also to Denise Raymond for insisting that I take every Tom Waits song she had in her collection last time I visited her. Tom’s The Man, and I don’t mean that in the School of Rock sense. Shrewreader soothed me with pithy common sense and BLG put up with my hysteria and came up with the idea of midsummer_secret_santa and the deadline that my inner type A apparently needed as an incentive to write again. And, of course, a huge thanks to MissPamela for requesting Gus/Johnny in the first place.
> 
> Kalena deserves co-author credit for her exquisite writing and imagery, and for getting me over a major hump.
> 
> Thanks also to Casaubon for setting me straight on geography and licensing laws in Ontario and Quebec. I'm so glad I didn't have to rewrite that whole other scene!


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